Under the Skin
by Absentia
Summary: Something horrible befalls one of the Titans, but the matter is out of their jurisdiction. Can the Titans hand this one over to the JCPD, or will the call for vengeance cry too loud? Heed the rating.
1. vIoLaTeD

**Summary**: Something horrible befalls one of the Titans, but the matter is out of their jurisdiction. Can the Titans hand this one over to the JCPD, or will the call for vengeance cry too loud? Certain Titans may not be able to trust justice to the law, and there's no telling just how deep this rabbit hole goes.

**Rating**: "Mature" for strong language, violence, sexual content and sensitive material.

**Warning**: YOU ARE NOW OFFICIALLY WARNED. DO NOT, and I repeat, DO NOT read beyond this point if you are of a weak constitution or can't handle reading about any of those subjects listed under the rating.

**AN**: For **Unfinished Business** readers, skip ahead to chapter three, or feel free to refresh yourself. For new readers, please enjoy, and let me know what you think. I'm finding myself more and more invested in this story, so forgive the panhandling, but reader feedback is crucial. Any thoughts or opinions on the story, any at all, please.

**Disclaimer**: They'd never let me own the Titans, because I keep doing awful things to them.

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**0****1: ****vI****oL****a****T****e****D**

_"I don't want to understand this horror/ There's a weight in your eyes/ I can't admit"_

_Our Lady Peace - Thief_

Marianne Webster sat at the reception desk of Jump City PD headquarters, nursing a hot cup of black coffee, fresh from the morning pot. Sighing over the aromatic steam, Marianne stared blankly out the window at the pinkening horizon, waiting for the caffeine to hit her brain and jumpstart her mental processes. She was always useless for the first fifteen minutes of the early shift. Coffee was an essential when one had to go to work at the ass-crack of dawn.

Saturday mornings like these were typically quiet. Business, as it were, usually started picking up as noon drew near, normally nothing more than such trivial matters as community service reports and ticket payments. It was a nice blessing, working at the PD and being able to count on most weekend mornings being fairly simple. It was like a small town PD at such times, with few worries.

Though, Marianne had to admit, that was mostly thanks to the unusual circumstances in Jump. She couldn't really think of anywhere else where vigilantes and local government and law enforcement got along so well. The city's heroes could usually be counted on to deal with the big, weird cases and often undercut a lot of the petty crimes that went with any urban area.

Of course, the JCPD still had their share of crime to deal with, but the margin was much narrower. JCPD dealt with minor felonies on a more regular basis, and, of course, the serious, ugly crimes that required special units and teams, the kind not suited for teenage do-gooders. Marianne never had to deal with any of the latter, thankfully, seeing as how she handled mostly paperwork and filing.

Just as Marianne drained the dregs of her mug, the front doors swung open on well-oiled hinges, admitting a disconcertingly familiar figure.

It was a Titan, one of the teen heroes who made Marianne's job so much easier. They were starting to get a bit old for the "teen" part of their name, and in a year or two, they'd be completely transitioned into the label "Team Titans".

Marianne frowned as the crusader seemed to waver under the garish halogen light, then stepped forward. This Titan was the dark sorceress, Raven, and something seemed odd, wrong somehow. As the mysterious young woman slipped back her cowl with a pale hand that seemed to tremble just so, Marianne gasped, half-rising from her chair thoughtlessly.

Raven's face was haggard, her short plum locks in snarls and matted in places, dark with some unidentifiable substance or another. Ghastly purple and yellow bruises decorated the scape of her left cheekbone, her lower lip swollen and split open, dried blood smeared down her chin. A cut over her right eye looked like it might require stitches.

Marianne couldn't see any more of the girl than that, other than a hand that clenched her cloak closed at the throat, her clutching fingers with bloodied knuckles all that held the heavy fabric around her, but Raven walked towards Marianne's desk with a pronounced limp.

"My Lord… child, are you alright? Can I get you a drink, or a chair?" Marianne had four children, three of them daughters and one of them graduating high school next year; she was a mother first, and the bedraggled sight of this young woman hardly older than her Emily sent alarms shrilling loud in her head.

Raven licked her lips and opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a thick croak. Wincing, she cleared her throat and tried again, managing in a raw, raspy voice that quavered and quaked, "I'd like to report a crime."

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Robin less leaned against the wall as slumped against it, and it seemed the only thing between him and a painful crash to the floor. His legs felt like jelly, like they wouldn't support his weight, as if his knees would buckle if he tried to stand on his own. In a detached way, he realized he was going into a sort of shock, and his sensibilities were telling him he needed to pull himself together if he was going to function properly as leader of the Titans and take control of the situation. All the rest of him wasn't listening.

"I can't believe this…"

The plainclothes leaning—actually leaning—against the wall across from him folded his arms across his broad chest and remarked, "Your friend was pretty lucky, actually."

"Lucky? What the hell is lucky about this?" Robin was still too stunned to emote the anger and indignation the detective's comment had incited, but the older man got the idea.

"Listen, kid, that's not what I meant. She's lucky she didn't die of the injuries she sustained. She seems to have healed herself a good bit, and she's in no great shape even now. What she's gone through is no small deal, and we _will_ catch the fucker who did it."

He just couldn't believe it. How could this have happened? How could he have allowed it to happen?

They hadn't explained why someone needed to come down to the station when the JCPD had contacted Titan Tower, only informed them vaguely that there had been an incident involving Raven.

Robin had gone, because he knew police procedure, had dealt with such things before in Gotham. He had experience. Only one person needed to go, and Robin would wire back to the Tower whatever news he got as soon as he got it.

True to his word, Robin had delivered the information as soon as he was enlightened, breaking the news to Cyborg almost mechanically. Robin was somewhat relieved that he'd come alone, now that he knew. Beastboy would have reacted very badly, wouldn't have been any help in the situation, and while Cyborg would have been able to deal, at the Tower he could… explain what had happened. Help them understand.

Now he was reeling from the shock, trying to wrap his head around the situation. In Gotham, things like this happened all the time, were pretty much commonplace. It was horrible and ugly, but there was nothing that could be done about it that wasn't already in effect. Here, in the sleepy, sunny California coastal city of Jump, it hadn't really been an issue, and Robin hadn't had to so much as worry about it. That was one of the things he loved so much about Jump. It was so much softer than gritty, rough Gotham. He had unpleasant dreams of nights on Gotham streets.

It was like part of the nightmare had followed him home.

Detective Freeman, the plainclothes, handed him a cup of coffee. Robin took it and stared at it as if he didn't recognize it or know what to do with it. He realized his hands were trembling when a drop of hot liquid spilled onto and over the green of his gloves. The moment he realized it, they stopped.

Robin looked up at the large window beside Freeman, set the coffee on a nearby hallstand and moved to stand in front of the glass.

She looked so small and helpless in there, so tiny and fragile and lost, the bruises on her face and blood on her mouth ugly and heartwrenching. She huddled under a pale blue EMP-issue blanket as Freeman's female partner gently but firmly questioned her. Raven was so strong, answering with little hesitation and as fully as she could.

Robin couldn't hear what she was saying. The interrogation room was soundproof.

Raven couldn't see him. The window was a two-way mirror.

Robin put his hand against the glass, the longing to reach out and hold that fragile, broken girl achingly strong. His fingers curled into a tight fist. "Do I need to take her to the hospital when your partner is through? Or can I take her home?"

"She's free to go as soon as Detective Yu has everything she needs. Miss Roth cooperated with evidence and forensics as much as was necessary, but she wouldn't let any doctors patch her up. Flat refused. I think she really just wants to go home and finish what she started."

"Okay. Thanks, Detective Freeman." Something distracted Robin's attention and he directed an inquisitive glance towards the officer. "Miss Roth, you said?"

"Her last name. We needed it for the report."

"Huh." Robin's focus was already back to Raven. Her head was bent and her spine was very straight, her shoulders very still. Detective Yu handed her a tissue.

Robin backed up to the opposite wall, watching the interrogation room door anxiously as the two women behind the glass rose. Detective Yu held the door open for Raven to precede her, and Robin was there waiting for her.

Catching sight of him, Raven stopped in the doorway, clutching the blanket tight around her shoulders as if she was cold. She was barely holding together, her calm, disaffected mask cracked and splintering, her swollen eyes bloodshot and shining with tears and pain. Robin took a step forward, hand raised. Freeman stood up straight and took two steps away from the wall.

Raven tensed, hunched inwards, her expression flinching for a moment before she asserted the mask again. Everyone in the quiet hallway stood still and silent, waiting. After a moment, she stood straighter, raised her gaze to Robin's. She held it, rallying her strength as she tried to stand indifferent and unaffected before him.

"Oh, Raven…"

The soft murmur tore through her defenses like tissue paper and she wavered, her lips starting to tremble as tears welled on her lashes. With a choked sob, she stumbled into his open arms, burying her face in his chest as he wrapped strong, protective arms around her shaking shoulders.

Resting his cheek atop her hair, Robin closed his eyes against his own urge to break down and cry with her, murmuring against her skin as he kissed her temple, "Sshh… You're safe now, Raven. I'll take care of you. You're going to be okay, I'm here now. I'm here."

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**AN**: Thank you, everyone who read this when I posted it in **Unfinished Business**. Because of your encouraging responses, I finally got the courage and the motivation to continue this story. –smiles- I'll be posting chapter two directly, which you have also already read, and the new chapter three will be arriving just after.

To new readers, I hope you will commit to this ride with me. It's something of a daunting undertaking, and somehow, to me, a more serious endeavor than any of my previous fanfiction projects. I know the popular norm is light comedy and romance, and angst and depression may at times threaten to consume this story, but I sincerely hope you will enjoy it just as well, and stick it out for the end. Thanks either way.


	2. vUlNeRaBlE

**Summary**: Something horrible befalls one of the Titans, but the matter is out of their jurisdiction. Can the Titans hand this one over to the JCPD, or will the call for vengeance cry too loud? Certain Titans may not be able to trust justice to the law, and there's no telling just how deep this rabbit hole goes.

**Rating**: "Mature" for strong language, violence, sexual content and sensitive material.

**Disclaimer**: They'd never let me own the Titans, because I keep doing awful things to them.

**Warning**: YOU ARE NOW OFFICIALLY WARNED. DO NOT, and I repeat, DO NOT read beyond this point if you are of a weak constitution or can't handle reading about any of those subjects listed under the rating.

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**0****2: ****v****U****lN****eR****aB****lE**

"_And as the world explodes/ We fall out of it/ And we can't let go/ Because this will not go away_"

Our Lady Peace - Thief

Raven's bedroom door slid shut on a whisper as Cyborg exited into the hall, grim and sober.

"I got her in bed, but I don't think she'll be sleeping any time soon unless she takes that sedative. She looks… haunted."

Starfire looked up at him with a muddled expression of pain and grim sorrow. Her arms were wrapped around her slim waist, as if to protect herself from the horror. "Would you not also be 'haunted'? On Tamaran, such violation is of highest taboo. It was—it _is_ not done."

Beastboy said nothing, just slouched against the wall in stricken silence.

"C'mon y'all, let's… let's just go."

Beastboy led the way down the corridor, Starfire close at his heels. Cyborg took two steps in their direction, stopped, and looked back at Robin, who stood staring at Raven's door as if waiting for it to yield the universe's secrets to him. "You comin'?"

"Huh?" Robin came to himself with a jerk and turned to look at Cyborg, who pinned him with a pitying stare. "Uh…" Robin ran a hand over his face and slumped back against the wall. "No. I'm going to stay just here for a little while. If she needs anything."

A reproof hesitated on the former athlete's tongue and he swallowed it, exhaling on a sigh. "Just don't let me find you sleeping out here."

There was no reply. Not that he'd expected one. He'd come back round midnight with a pillow and blanket, of course.

Cyborg hovered before the entrance to the common room and changed his mind, turning from his shaken companions and heading down the offbranching passage towards his own room.

Entering the seemingly cold and impersonal chamber, Cyborg bypassed his slab of a bed, the bank of highly sophisticated and delicate computers, overlooked the stacks and piles of raw wires, half-programmed chips and superfluous experiments and equipment, to a dark and dusty closet obscured behind the rack of prototype and in-progress projects.

The door opened on squeaky hinges, admitting him into the little-used space. Groping in the darkness, the metal man hooked his fingers on the edge of a cardboard box and dragged it into the light. He rifled through sports medals and framed diplomas and awards, various memorabilia and mementos from the life of a forgotten young man.

Cyborg smiled fondly down on the happier memories of Victor Stone, fingering a faded blue ribbon and caressing a game-winning football. Down to the bottom of the box of keepsakes and tokens, until his fingers probed something that a little under his touch, something he knew from memory to be soft and a little ragged.

Ah. So there it was.

Victor… no, Cyborg pulled the well-used hand-me-down teddy bear from the box, cradling the fuzzy stuffed animal in hands that could no longer feel those familiar worn spots or the soft fur. It seemed something so small and fragile now. As a child, it had meant safety and security to him, a refuge in a crazy world. Mr. Bear had been his stolid friend and faithful companion, survived all his lonesome backyard romps and learning to ride a tricycle. In memory, it embodied all the contentedness and warm, happy days of his early youth, when things were… were okay.

All those memories faded to gray, yielded to a reality of pain and paranoia, of cybernetic hands that touched and couldn't feel, a world that was ugly and lonely and where the danger was never greater than in the minds of the people around you. The safety of childhood was stripped away and it was so easy for all that evil to touch and taint you. Mr. Bear was just a silly cradle toy, something to toss in a box and hide in the dark, seal away like all your hopes and dreams and illusions of optimism, because bad things happened to good people and you couldn't do a damn thing, and Mr. Bear wasn't helping anyone.

Victor cradled Mr. Bear to his chest and closed his eyes, trying very hard not to cry, and wished away all the bad things in the world, and tried very hard to believe, if only for a moment or two, that that was all it took.

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Starfire sat on the couch with Beastboy, who held a GameStation controller in his hands, his thumbs lightly brushing over the buttons and nudging the toggle stick, despite the black and silent TV screen.

The quiet surrounding the two was thick and pulsing, yet alarmingly fragile, as if it might rip to shreds with screaming and howling at the drop of a pin.

Star shifted her weight on the cushions, fidgeting uncomfortably, and a spring beneath her squeaked from the small movement. Freezing every muscle, she felt her breath suck in between her dry lips, rattling down her throat into her lungs, abruptly stoppered by tongue and a wet swallowing, the click of her teeth as her jaw clicked shut—as if she could take it back.

For a short forever it was so quiet that the only sound was the distant ticking of the kitchen clock, counting time, the sound like a rhythmic fist beating in the chest.

Beastboy rose from the couch as if it had expelled him, the game controller clattering from his hands to the floor as he stepped over the cord, his hands running back and forth over his hair.

Starfire's eyes tracked him as he began to pace parallel to the coffee table, watched his knuckles find their way between his teeth, his lips lift in a brief snarl before he flung his hand down by his side.

"This happened, Star," his voice was a rough murmur, as if Starfire were more a figment of his imagination than a girl who huddled into her center on the couch. "This _really_ happened."

He looked at her then, and Starfire nodded, even though his eyes weren't seeing her.

"Raven was _raped_."

They both flinched, like the word spoken aloud was a gun fired by mistake at a friend.

Beastboy's feet stilled and his head drooped on his neck like a dying flower, his features twisted by too many uncomfortable things to properly express.

Starfire's arms clamped tighter around herself, her fingers clutching at her elbows, trying to contain an explosion that would devastate her world. Her chin trembled, bottom lip caught hard between small white teeth. Air rushed in and out of her nostrils, too fast, too loud.

Then, like a monster clawing its way from buried nightmares, a single word erupted from her throat.

"_Yes_."

Beastboy lifted his head and looked at her, startled to see how wide Star's green eyes were, how a blanch had paled her warm orange skin to sickly yellow. She met his gaze as if she were ashamed of something, and when he opened his mouth to speak, her expression changed to panic.

Leaping from her seat, she darted from the room as quickly as her feet could carry her.

Left alone now in a room even more horribly silent than before, Beastboy lingered over the thought of pursuing his friend but, his head too wildly spinning, dropped back onto the couch instead.

Spine bowed, elbows on knees, he laced his fingers in front of his mouth to hide the tremble in them, and whispered into his palms, "This sucks."

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**AN**: I know the pacing is slow, but please bear with me. We got get over all the horror-movie slow reaction stuff before we really start moving in on the plot. And yes, there really is one, I promise.


	3. pIeCeS

**Summary**: Something horrible befalls one of the Titans, but the matter is out of their jurisdiction. Can the Titans hand this one over to the JCPD, or will the call for vengeance cry too loud? Certain Titans may not be able to trust justice to the law, and there's no telling just how deep this rabbit hole goes.

**Rating**: "Mature" for strong language, violence, sexual content and sensitive material.

**AN**: The real update, for **Unfinished Business** readers. This is unbetaed, because Em's very, very busy being a real-life lawyer now. :D (congratulate her) So if at some point I rip it down because I've realized it's really awful and in need of much revision, please forgive me for assaulting your eyeballs.

**Warning**: YOU ARE NOW OFFICIALLY WARNED. DO NOT, and I repeat, DO NOT read beyond this point if you are of a weak constitution or can't handle reading about any of those subjects listed under the rating.

**Disclaimer**: They'd never let me own the Titans, because I keep doing awful things to them.

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**03: pIeCeS**

"_And we are so fragile/ And our cracking bones make noise/ And we are just/ Breakable, breakable, breakable/ Girls and boys"_

_Ingrid Michaelson - Breakable_

There were times when darkness and quiet seemed to breathe, to have life. When stillness was only motion in waiting.

Curled tightly in a ball beneath the light weight of sheet and blanket, Raven felt like that now, stifled and oppressed. In the pale green glow of her alarm clock, she stared at the glass of water and pair of small white pills on her night table, trying to convince her hand to reach for the cool water, insisting to her dry mouth and aching body that the drugs would help.

Her mental arguments had fallen on her own deaf ears for the past hour.

She was terrified of unconsciousness. The thought of being unaware of her surroundings closed her throat, the threat of things happening around her—_to her_—without her knowledge—_without her consent_—made her nostrils flare and her breath come faster.

The sheets whispered as she pulled her knees tighter up against her abdomen, the hand under the pillow clutching a fistful of fabric-softener scented cotton and her left hand clutching at her ankle.

The smell of familiar detergent on her blankets should have been soothing, the silky caress of her satin pajama set a comfort, but it wasn't. She could smell dirt and sweat in her hair, and the smooth touch of the clothing on her skin was startlingly intimate, like soft palms sliding over limbs and ribcage.

Raven sat bolt upright in the bed, clapping her hand over her mouth, bile splashing in the back of her throat. Swallowing thickly, she forced her hand down to the mattress and deliberately slid her legs over the edge of the bed, setting her feet gently but firmly on the carpet.

Inhaling sharply, she ignored the protests of strained muscles and stood up. Carefully smoothing her hands over the cloth covering her thighs, she took a deep breath, and planted one foot before the other, slow, deliberate steps.

Rounding the bed, she locked her eyes on the door in the far wall by the vanity, watching it draw nearer and nearer. After what seemed a long and tiring journey, she stood in front of the bathroom door, and placed her hand on the cool lock pad. It flashed green under her palm, and the door slid silently open, the automatic lights raising as she edged over the threshold.

The small room flooded with light, and Raven's eyes drew like magnets to the wall mirror over the sink. She flinched. Lowered her eyes. Set her teeth and raised her gaze defiantly again, made herself look.

Wide, dark eyes in sunken hollows, circled by exhaustion and bloodshot from unshed tears. The skin around her left eye was still a little swollen, a yellowing bruise patterning from brow to cheekbone. A seam of scab traced the curve of her lower lip, and a bluer bruise fingered the edges of her jawline, traced in a large, mottled blotch over her throat.

Ugliness. An unsightly mess. But Raven's hands trembled at the mere thought of forcing blue light from them. She just didn't have it left in her to bother with healing the remaining surface damage, however aesthetically unappealing it made her.

"Reminders," she whispered grimly to the haunt-eyed girl in the mirror.

Yes, reminders. Tokens, mementos. A collection of wounds and injuries for remembrance.

As if she could forget.

Turning her head decisively, Raven started across the cold tile floor to the small linen closet and reached inside for a pair of navy bath towels. For just a moment, she pressed the soft cotton to her face and inhaled the clean scent.

She wanted to feel _clean_ again.

Reaching up to touch her fingers to the tangled knots of her hair, Raven decided that the first step was a long, hot shower.

Laying the towel set atop the closed toilet lid, she ignored her trembling fingers as she lifted her nightshirt over her head, pushed pajama bottoms and underwear down past hips and knees and ankles.

Sliding back the opaque glass shower door, she reached in and turned the hot water knob and depressed the shower button, watching the spray gather steam before stepping from her puddle of cloth and over the lip of the tub.

Her breath hissed in as the near-scalding water hit her skin, raising gooseflesh across her shoulders and down her arms. Setting her jaw, she endured the heat and shut the shower door, moving to stand more fully under the spray.

She tilted her face up towards the shower head and closed her eyes, tracking individual beads of water by sensation as they traveled down her skin, followed a droplet as it slid around the inner corner of her eye, sloped down her cheek and curved over her upper lip. As it met the crease of her mouth, her lips parted, and the tip of her tongue shot out to draw the moisture into her mouth.

Opening her eyes, Raven raised her hands to her head and began massaging the water into her tangled, matted hair, carefully working the strands apart and loosening knots. Working round her scalp towards the base of her skull, just a little behind her ear, her probing fingertips encountered a clot of crusted blood and paused.

A shudder rippled down her spine, and for a moment her stomach lurched up towards her mouth, but after a moment of stillness and shallow breathing, Raven swallowed the threat of bile and began ungently picking apart the clot, tugging and pulling till the clump of hair loosened into individual strands.

When she could run her fingers freely through her hair, Raven reached for the peppermint shampoo on the shower shelf, squeezing a generous amount into her palm and inhaling deeply of the sharp, crisp scent. She worked her hair into a thick lather, rinsed until her hair squeaked between her fingers, and repeated the process.

After the last of the lather was rinsed from her scalp, she reached for the rosemary and thyme herbal soap, fingers hesitating on the grainy texture. Curling her hand around the lumpy bar, she held it under the steaming spray until it was slick and sudsy in her grip.

Carefully, gently, almost a whisper of a touch, she began to run the soap over her arms, working in slow circles up to her shoulders, working the lather over collarbones and sternum. As she passed the soap over her breasts, she shoved away the ghost of tenderness and ache, moving on briskly to her ribcage and stomach.

She couldn't stifle her wince or the sharp gasp of pain when she found the bruised lower ribs on her right side, and the sharp stab of pain at even the light slick of the soap over the large, purple-green bruise on her hip drew a small, mewling noise from the back of her throat.

The soap clattered on the floor of the tub when it slipped from her shaking fingers, and she found her legs folding beneath her, her knees buckling like wet paper. Her shins banged against the porcelain with only a dull pain, the sting of her palms slapping against the wall in front of her much sharper. Bowing her head, she sucked in mouthfuls of air, vision spinning and swirling down to a pinprick.

Raven sat like that for what felt like a very long time, and must have been, for when she opened her eyes and began blinking away swirls of neon color, the water had gone almost lukewarm.

There was a fine trembling all over her body, but she focused with single minded determination on the bar of soap resting by the drain, reaching out and securing it in her unsteady grasp. Refusing any and all other thought, she focused on running the soap bar over her feet and legs like it was the most difficult thing she had ever done, the trembling of her hands becoming a pronounced tremor as she guided the bar over and between her splotched and spotted thighs.

Finally, she let the soap slide from between her fingers and merely sat there, letting the water run over her and rinse her off at its own pace. It was all she could do, right then, to stay conscious. Or sane.

When at last the water ran cold and her fingertips were pruny and wrinkled, she gathered enough presence of mind to shut off the spray. Kneeling in the tub, shivering and dripping, she turned her head, heavy like it was lined with lead, and looked at the towels, mentally coached herself to just stand up, to reach out and wrap the cotton around her. Then she could be warm, and dry.

Moving sluggishly, and her hands shaking so badly she dropped one of the towels twice, she at last managed to swaddle herself in the soft cloth.

She sat on the toilet lid for a moment, breathing, staring at the wall, the air drying the damp on her skin and the towel wrapped round her hair weighing down her head, she knew that this wouldn't do.

Now was not the time to come to pieces. She wasn't sure when it would be, but this wasn't it. Not yet.

Having decided this small, important thing, she began to force her breaths to be even and measured, in. Out. In. Out.

"Azarath," inhale, "Metrion," exhale, "Zinthos," inhale.

She held the last breath for thirty seconds, eyes closed, finding her center and coming somewhere to the wobbly left of it, but closer than she had been in the last sixty hours.

Exhale.

When she stood, she was steady, and her hands almost didn't shake at all as she dried herself off properly and ran a brush gently through her hair. Swaddled in a black terrycloth robe, she turned off the bathroom light and stepped back into her bedroom, clicking on the lamp on her desk for just enough light to properly see by.

She stood in front of her closet for a moment, considering another pajama set, surprising herself with how violently she rejected the idea. Instead, she moved past the closet to her dresser and put on her most comfortable, boring pair of white cotton panties, then drew open the bottom left drawer.

Settling on her knees, she rummaged around inside until she found what she wanted, her fingers grasping tight in soft cloth and knotting the clothes in her hands when she drew them into her lap.

Stroking her hand over the well-worn material, Raven lifted the excessively large gray T-shirt to eye level, her mouth twitching at the corner at the faded depiction of Scooby-Doo emblazoned across it. The shirt had been Cyborg's, a long time ago, he said, and she had rescued it from a box of things he had intended to throw out without so much as asking him if she could. It had become one of her favorite shirts to sleep in. Right now, she could use the sentimental comfort. A pair of worn old gray sweatpants completed the frumpy, familiar ensemble.

Dressed in psychological armor, Raven stood in the middle of the room for a long time, staring down the large oval of her bed like it was an adversary determined to overcome her.

She tried to remind herself that she was a hero, the sort of person who was strong and stubborn and faced down dastardly villains and menacing toughs each and every day without quailing or hesitating.

That person was so very far away from the small, wounded, weak girl she had been remade into that Raven found that strength and immovability far out of reach, a sun that burned to bright to see, much less touch.

No. She turned away from the bed, lashes fluttering on her cheeks as the hurt girl urged her to find safe shadows to hide in.

"Robin," she murmured.

She was at her door before she realized, fingertips faltering in the air before they rested on the lockpad. Certainly, Robin was a bastion of safety and security if there was ever such a thing, and he had proven time and time over that he could know her darkness and ugliness and still see past them to her… but she was afraid.

He might ask questions. He was inquisitive by nature, and his thirst for justice had gotten people in his path hurt before, even his friends. He might look at her too closely, a cutting glance from him tearing through her skin like paper, his hard eyes laying on her flesh like fists, and she had too many scrapes and bruises to bear feeling already.

Deep breath.

No. She would not seek Robin out right now. She would only go to the kitchen for some tea. Yes, some chamomile tea, to calm her nerves, old routines to soothe her mind.

Her fingertips brushed over the pad and the door slid open, and her heart seized in her chest, lips pressing together bloodlessly to keep from trembling, the image suddenly in front of her wetting her eyes.

Robin, safe, strong Robin, so fearsome and terribly protective, was slumped in an uncomfortable posture against the wall just across from her door, a blanket draped carelessly over his lap. He still wore his mask, eyes hidden, but the boneless cant of his head and deep, even movements of his chest suggested sleep. He was dressed in his uniform still, rumpled and wrinkled, telling Raven he hadn't moved from this spot since he had brought her home.

He was always so vigilant, the pain he tried not to feel when something escaped his watch so obvious to her, she knew he was trying, somehow, someway, to make up for his powerlessness to help her when she had most needed it, for his ignorance of the horrors she had been facing, while he was all the while unaware.

Her heart resumed its beating, thudding painfully in her chest, that fragile cavity seeming to constrict from the emotion she feared she might drown in. Sorrow, that he had not been able to help her, that he felt the need to make up for that inability. Gratitude that he considered her someone worth saving, even too late. And love, swelling warmth and wonder that this wonderful, flawed human being tried to protect and understand her, even when he couldn't.

Her attacker had broken body and bones and spirit, and Robin threatened to break her heart.

Stepping lightly, soundlessly on the carpeted hall floor, she let her door hush closed behind her and moved beside her sleeping would-be hero, her palm trailing down the painted wall as she lowered herself to sit a few inches beside him. She watched his face for a moment, thinking about cliches and sayings of how sleep granted an illusion of peace, and wondered sadly, wistfully, why they couldn't apply to Robin's troubled, shadowed features.

Even in rest, he couldn't masquerade contentment. Not this caring soul who would take personal responsibility for all of the world's troubles if only he had Atlas's shoulders.

Raven reached out a shaky hand, the tip of her middle finger tracing the upper curve of Robin's high cheekbone like a breath of air, up to his stormy brow, where she lightly brushed aside a lock of dark hair. He never stirred a moment, and she found herself surprised by a small smile that stretched the cut on her lip. In all of this horror and guilt and fear, it gave her some small hope that she could be pleased that her friend was so comfortable with her as to be completely undisturbed by her presence.

He gave her so much he could never know, in these little ways.

Watching him sleep, Raven decided that if, when he woke up, Robin wanted to ask her barbed questions or look at her with eyes like gun barrels, she would swallow the thorns and answer, and accept bullet holes in her façade, all for the sweetness of this one moment.

A temporary blanket of warmth and numbness settled over Raven, separating her from the things she feared to feel, and she laid her cheek on Robin's shoulder. Her eyelids lowered slowly like curtains, and she inhaled Robin's scent of soap and musk and day-old cologne, until her breathing began to match his, and she drifted like falling snow into sleep.

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**AN**: I kind of meant this to be a bit longer, with a little more after this, but I realized this was the better stopping point. But hey, at least we got Raven's point of view finally, huh?


End file.
